‘Yes, look, about that …’
‘… but I agree with Em, your work is fabulous. Is that particular necklace still available?’
‘It’s not … I mean, I’m not …’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s not really available, as such.’
‘Damn. The rest have all sold out, yes?’ She tuts. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. I’m just annoyed with myself for not knowing about you before. So do you have anything similar you could show us? Em’s heading to LA for a month tomorrow and she’d really like to be able to take some of your pieces to accessorize with while she’s over there.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. I just … I could let you have the necklace, if you – if Emma – really wants it.’
‘But I thought you said it was all sold out.’
‘No, no, it’s not sold out, because I don’t have any to sell.’
There’s a brief, confused pause on the other end of the phone.
‘I don’t understand …’ Debbie Lederman says, after a moment.
‘Tell her you’ll let them have that one!’ Audrey hisses, waving the iPad at me for good measure because – oh, for heaven’s sake – she’s just been Googling Emma Watson’s Wikipedia entry. ‘Emma Watson is a huge star!’
‘Libby? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ I tell Debbie. ‘I can always let you have this one.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one I’m wearing.’
‘So … it is available?’
‘Yes. It’s available.’
‘Oh, my God, Libby, that’s fantastic. Can I ask how much it is? Emma is so often given these things for free, but if you’re a young, new designer I know she’d much prefer to pay.’
‘No, no, it’s free. I mean, no charge.’
‘So you’ll loan it to us?’
‘No, she can have it. I’m not giving this one to Nora now, anyway, so …’ A surprisingly fierce look, from Audrey, silences me on the Nora front. ‘Look, why don’t I pop it in the post this afternoon, special delivery or something? If you just give me your address?’
‘Heavens, don’t do that! I’ll send a bike messenger to pick it up from your studio. Unless … well, is there any way you’d have the time to pop to my office this afternoon and drop it off yourself? It’s just that I’d really like to meet and have a quick chat. I’m always keen to forge links with new designers. Or I could come to you, if it’s easier?’
‘God, no, don’t do that. Er – yes, I could easily come to you this afternoon. But Debbie, honestly, I’m not really a designer, I only make these necklaces for friends and family, and—’
‘Libby, my dear,’ Debbie says, briskly but not unkindly, ‘you can fill me in on your life story when we meet later. As long as you’ve got the necklace Em has asked for, that’s all that matters right now, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Aces. I work in-house at Butterfly PR, Twenty-Two Dover Street. Can you get here for about three?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Good, well, just ask for me at reception when you get here, and we’ll go and grab a quick coffee together, OK? Thanks so much, by the way, Libby. I’m going to give Emma a call right now. She’ll be thrilled.’
It’s only when I put my iPhone down that I realize my hands have gone from shaky to juddery, and that I’m feeling sicker than ever.
‘Oh, my God,’ is all I manage to say.
‘Oh, Libby! This is just …’ Audrey Hepburn flings her thin arms around me, bashing me slightly with her huge hat as she does so. For a hug from a ghost, it’s surprisingly sturdy. ‘It must be like a dream come true!’
Which isn’t exactly the case.
Because I’ve never dreamed about this before. Designing jewellery for movie stars to wear. Designing jewellery for anyone to wear, apart from my sister and my friends, that is.
Though I’m not sure why I’ve never dreamed about it, because it’s apparently something I’m a bit better at than I’ve ever really thought.
Wow.
Is this what it feels like to actually be good at something, for a change?
Because (now that the shaking and the sick feeling are slowly wearing off, that is) it feels pretty great.
‘And there are still more tweets coming through,’ Audrey says, gleefully returning to the iPad, ‘with people asking where to get hold of your necklaces … and another private message just in, too. The lovely Emma, I expect, thanking you for …’ She stops, as she reads the new message. Then she looks up at me. ‘Is your father called Edward?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘He’s just sent you a message, darling.’
I look at the iPad screen she’s – again – holding out towards me.
It’s another private message. This time from @Edward LomaxBiographerAndFilmHistorian.
Hi, Libby. I didn’t know you were on Twitter. Give me a call sometime? Dad.
Everything seems to go very still around me.
I read the message again, all fifteen words of it.
Hi, Libby. I didn’t know you were on Twitter. Give me a call sometime? Dad.
It’s the most I’ve heard from him in half a decade.
‘What are you going to reply?’ asks Audrey, in a soft voice, sitting down on the Chesterfield beside me.
I shake my head.
‘You can’t just ignore him, darling.’
‘Oh, but I can.’ No sooner has she sat down than I get to my feet. ‘It’s a talent I must have inherited from him, actually. Ignoring your closest relatives.’
‘Libby. Don’t you think …?’
‘No, I don’t. I’ve just had a pretty bloody fantastic thing happen to me, for a very refreshing change, and I’ve absolutely no intention of letting a random tweet from my father ruin this moment for me.’
‘It was a private message, actually, darling, not a …’
I silence Audrey Hepburn with a look.
‘So can we just delete it, or at the very least stop talking about it? Because I’ve got a very important meeting to get to and I really need you to help me glam up a bit.’
‘Of course!’ She takes off her hat in a business-like manner and places it next to her sunglasses on the sofa. ‘It will be my pleasure. Though it really is a shame you didn’t keep those Net-a-Porter things, because there were quite a few bits and pieces in there that would have been perfect for this occasion. A smart pencil skirt, a nice Breton jersey … it wasn’t just formalwear, you know.’
‘Well, I didn’t keep them,’ I fib, ‘so we’re just going to have to make do with what we’ve got.’
Even Audrey’s not quite enough of an actress to hide her visible disappointment at this prospect, but she’s uncomplaining as she heads over to my still-unpacked wardrobe boxes to begin the sift-through.
‘And you’re absolutely sure,’ she says, after a moment, ‘that you don’t want to reply anything at all to your father?’
‘I’m absolutely sure, Audrey, thank you.’
She seems, finally, to get the message, because she simply nods, gives me one of her beautiful, heart-melting smiles, and returns to my boxes without saying another word.
*
Given that I’m probably going to be meeting Dillon tonight, it really, really wasn’t a good idea to pack away a selection of finger sandwiches, two clotted-cream-and-jam scones, a slice of carrot cake with cream-cheese icing and a mini lemon tart when I had tea with Debbie Lederman just now.
But she was sooooooo incredibly nice, introducing me to the other girls in her office as ‘this fabulous new young jewellery designer I want to cultivate’, and not at all like the bitchy, appearance-obsessed fashion stylists I’d always assumed celebrities must hire, that when she suggested we pop over the road to the Wolseley for a spot of afternoon tea while we chatted, I wasn’t exactly going to say no.
And my error over all that calorie-laden food aside, it was a pretty fantastic meeting. If I was nervous,
handing over Nora’s necklace for her to see up close, I needn’t have been, because she oohed and aahed and said she loved it even more. Then she asked all about me, and wasn’t at all bothered by the fact – impressed upon her once again – that I’m not a proper jewellery designer, fabulous or otherwise. She just said that I was missing a trick, not making a career out of this, and that she’d love to see any more examples of jewellery I’ve made recently, and that if I make anything else she’d love to see that, too …
Like I say, pretty fantastic.
And even though I should probably scurry along a packed Piccadilly on my way back to the tube, now, with my head down, just in case anyone recognizes me as the bottom-revealer from That Video, I don’t. I don’t care, really, if anyone does. Because I feel like I’m walking on air, fifteen feet above the crowds, buoyed up by the incredible thing that’s just happened to me.
I mean, could I do this? Make a career out of my jewellery bits and bobs?
Potentially succeed at something I might actually be good at, instead of failing at something I was never really supposed to be doing in the first place?
Because I’m not saying that, if I made a career from jewellery-making, I definitely wouldn’t set my head on fire, or get locked out of spas semi-naked with my towel tucked into my thong, or have unflattering Instagram videos of me posted for all the world (except possibly a few dozen tribes-people in Papua New Guinea) to see. Obviously those things could happen, whether I was a failed actress, or a successful jewellery designer, or a bus driver, or the head of the Bank of England, for all I know.
But the point is that even if those things did happen, at least they’d be happening to a person who was going somewhere in life. To a person who was doing something, rather than just sitting on the sidelines watching Hollywood fantasy on her iPad and watching real life happen to everybody else.
I’m absolutely bursting to tell somebody about this, and the person I’m bursting to tell is Olly.
These days, it occurs to me, since Nora’s been working in Scotland, he’s pretty much the first to hear all my big news, good and bad, the moment I get it. He was the first person I called after I found my new flat. The first person I called after Daniel dumped me. And vice versa: I was the first person Olly called right after he got the loan to start his own catering company a couple of years ago; the first person he called when he was awarded the big contract with Pinewood Studios; the first person he called when he and Alison split up, only a few months after getting a flat together. He’ll let out one of his big shouts of delight when I tell him, and insist that we book a nice meal out, as soon as possible, to celebrate.
But as I get my phone out of my bag to call him, I see that I’ve had a missed call from Dillon – almost an hour ago, while I was scoffing scones with Debbie Lederman. He didn’t leave a message.
Well, I’ll give him a call back and find out if he really meant what he said, earlier, about us spending the evening together.
And then I’ll call Olly and tell him my good news.
(And then, after that, if I really am going to be seeing Dillon tonight, I’d better hurry to M&S on Oxford Street and buy the strongest pair of control knickers I can find. Preferably some that are reinforced with titanium, the better to rein in the clotted-cream-scone-induced bloat.)
I call Dillon’s number.
His phone rings and rings, and is almost certainly just about to go to voicemail when he picks up.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hi! I was just calling to see if you’re still up for it tonight?’ Then, because I realize how that sounded, I add, hastily, ‘Dinner, I mean. If you’re still up for dinner. Because I know I wasn’t sure before, but if you’re still free, I’d really love to …’
‘Dinner?’
‘Yep. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. It’s this meal that people often eat some time between the hours of six and nine p.m. If you’re posh, you call it supper, and if you’re not so posh, you call it tea …’ I pause, feeling rather pleased with myself for turning one of his favourite kinds of jokes back on him for a change, and waiting for him to laugh. But there’s just a bit of a silence. ‘Um … Dillon?’
The silence continues.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry, I was just …’ He must have turned away from the phone for a moment, because his voice fades, briefly, before coming back as normal. ‘Look, I can’t do dinner tonight, actually. My apologies.’
While it’s obviously a bit concerning that he’s changed his mind, what’s more concerning is the clipped, distant tone he’s using.
‘I’ve got to catch a flight to Rome,’ he adds, curtly, ‘in six hours.’
‘Rome?’
I’m hoping that he’s going to say, Yeah, it’s this major European capital city, in a country called Italy … maybe you’ve heard of it …
He doesn’t. He just says, ‘Yeah, so that’s why I can’t do dinner. But, like I say, my apologies.’
‘It’s just … well, that’s quite short notice. To have to … go to Rome.’
Even as I say it, it sounds ludicrous. I mean, I was prepared to buy the whole New York story, but such a random travelogue, in the space of just a few days, is starting to seem more than a little bit fishy.
‘That’s why I’m busy. I’m getting a few things packed. I’m meeting Martin Scorsese over there.’
‘Oh, wow, Dillon, that’s—’
‘Anyway, I’ll call you when I’m back, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ I try (and pretty much fail) to sound causal. ‘Whenever. No hurry.’
‘Great.’
‘I mean, I’m sure you’ll be back in a couple of days …’
‘OK, well, good talking to you.’
‘Baby,’ a voice suddenly calls in the background. ‘Who are you talking to …?’
It’s Rhea’s voice.
I freeze. Which isn’t the best timing, as I’ve just stepped out into Piccadilly and narrowly miss being sent flying by a motorbike that has to swerve into the middle of the road to avoid hitting me.
‘Stupid cow!’ the rider of the motorbike screams at me as he rides off, for which I can’t really blame him.
‘No one,’ I hear Dillon reply in a muffled voice, as if he’s covering the mouthpiece of his phone with one hand.
‘Then come back to bed …’
I pull the phone away from my ear and press the End Call button.
‘You all right, love?’ A woman with a buggy and a toddler on reins asks me, as she somehow manages to find a spare hand to pull me back onto the pavement beside her. ‘That could have been messy!’
‘It already is …’
‘Right. Look, you should probably go and get yourself a nice cup of tea, or something. Or – hang on a minute – have one of these.’ She rifles around in the back of the buggy and produces, a couple of seconds later, a bright purple pouch of toddler’s fruit smoothie. ‘This’ll get your blood sugar back up,’ she adds, pressing it into my hand.
‘Thank you … I’m just a bit … I mean, he was with her … She told him to come back to bed …’
The woman glances down at her toddler for a moment, presumably checking he hasn’t understood what I’m saying, and then she leans a bit closer to me.
‘Men,’ she says, in a low voice. ‘They’re all the bloody same.’
Then the green man lights up and the beeps sound, and she crosses over the pedestrian crossing with her buggy and toddler safely in tow. From the other side of the road she turns and makes a ‘drinking’ motion with one of her other spare hands, though whether it’s to remind me to drink the toddler’s smoothie or to go and find the nearest stiff drink, I don’t know.
I don’t know what to do with myself, to be honest with you.
This is so, so much worse than simply waking up in the morning and finding that Dillon had gone.
After everything Rhea has done to me … after all those things he was saying to me only this morning … he
was in bed with her?
I feel so terribly, terribly stupid.
Cretinously, humiliatingly, and – worst of all – predictably stupid.
And I genuinely don’t understand why I’m doing what I’m doing at this very moment. Which is reaching into my jacket pocket for my iPhone, and calling the very last person I ever thought I’d call in a situation like this.
The very last person I thought I’d ever call, in any situation, ever.
I’m calling my father.
Right, well, I blame Audrey for this.
Bloody Audrey, with all her talk about mending fences with her father, and not expecting him to be anything different, and – I now realize – sowing the seeds in my head that maybe this Happy-enough Families situation is one I could achieve, too.
If (when) this all goes horribly wrong when (if) Dad gets here in a few minutes, I’m going to give Audrey a piece of my mind when I get back home to my flat, I can tell you.
Here, by the way, is The Jade Dragon, in Chinatown, Dad’s favourite restaurant. It’s the place he didn’t bring me sixteen years ago for my belated thirteenth birthday celebration, and it was the place I suggested to him when, just an hour ago, we spoke on the phone.
Spoke pretty briefly on the phone, by the way; it wasn’t all that promising. He sounded astounded when he answered (though I suppose, at least, he did answer), with a bemused ‘Libby?’
‘Yep. It’s me.’
‘Yes. Why are you … is everything all right? Nothing wrong with your mother?’
(I’m not sure what was more depressing: the fact that he immediately assumed that the only reason I’d be calling him was to announce dire news about Mum, or the fact that I detected more than a mere hint of hope in his voice as he asked the question.)
‘No,’ I said, ‘Mum’s fine. I’m just calling because … well, I thought you might like, maybe, to meet up.’
‘Meet up?’
‘Yes. For a … a bite.’
There was a short silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Uh … yeah, sure. A bite. Why not? When’s good for you?’
‘Now? Tonight?’ I blurted, only just managing to stop myself before adding, as my teenage self would have done: Actually don’t worry about it I’m sure you’re working or busy doing something else so really I’m fine let’s just do it another time no problem.
A Night In With Audrey Hepburn Page 25
